DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 13, SECTION 7

The outline of a head, hairless and shadowy, rose up across from me.

The head's white eyes looked human, but this was like no human I'd ever seen. Now that the canoe had been shoved out into the river, the moonlight's reflection illuminated a narrow torso and a set of long, thin limbs. Whatever this thing was now found enough balance to stand and step over the canoe's seat toward me.

I could see now that the entire body was covered in charred flesh. A thick blood-like fluid, like bacon grease boiled in wine, oozed from fissures in the burnt skin and from between exposed bone.

I fell backwards.

The thing's hand—or its palm; there were no fingers—grabbed at my knee and pushed it aside, opening my legs and leaving a slick stain of burnt bodily fluids on my jeans.

As I struggled to right myself in the shaky canoe, the thing rose above me on its bony knees, stared at me for a brief moment, and screamed out a raspy, smoky roar of intense rage.

Suddenly, I recognized the eyes.

They were the same eyes that had ogled me as a babysitter; the same eyes that had starred dully at my breasts on the SUV's hood; the same eyes that had leapt up in the locker room window.

They were Jason's eyes.

The rest of Jason's body had been so badly burned that he'd been left with only a vaguely skeletal frame. Only remnants of charred, infected flesh attached loosely to his bones. Somehow, he hadn't expired after being burned by the Home Guard. His late stage-three TGV had kept him clinging to life. He must have crawled off of the football field and down to the river to submerge his badly burned body. Since then, he'd been terrorizing any women that passed by.

But I wasn't just another woman's body to him. He recognized me. I was certain of this when his eyes met mine. Whatever dim awareness remained in his consciousness, he knew who I was.

He hated me.

And he was bent on killing me and forcing himself on me all at once.

It didn't seem to matter that his penis had been burned away to its charred root, or that his testicles had smoldered down to a moist pit between his legs.

I couldn't breath out of sheer disgust and terror as his burnt frame fell on top of me, landing between my thighs.

I threw up. I couldn't help it.

Jason tore at my shirt with the stumps of his hands and breathed a rancid, smoky breath into my neck. His slim pelvis thrust madly into my groin.

I desperately struggled to push him away and to spit out the vomit clogging my mouth.

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